


Bewitchered

by Carcosa



Series: Witchering [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings Realization, M/M, Monster of the Week, Sexy Bromance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carcosa/pseuds/Carcosa
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier leave the village of Rinde, hoping to make a clean exit before the crazy sorceress Yennefer wakes up and finds them. Word has reached them of some potential monsters in a nearby town, so they seize the excuse to ride for the hills and seek out a new adventure.But perhaps this latest monster is more dangerous than the one they have just left behind – for this one has the power to show both friends the truth of how they really feel for each other. And are either of them ready to face up to such a challenge?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witchering [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612315
Comments: 169
Kudos: 1065





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a bit new to writing fanfics and the Witcher. I’ve spent my Christmas holiday bingewatching Netflix (haven’t we all?), and thought it might be fun to get a few ideas written down whilst I still have the time. So I apologise if I’ve got anything wrong detail-wise in the story – if you give me a shout in the comments I’ll happily correct any canon elements that are incorrect.
> 
> I’m thinking this fic will run for a couple of chapters, with some smut thrown in rather frivolously as I go along, as well as some non-canon made-up monster stuff that will help the boys along in their little adventure with each other. It’s set in time just after S1E5 in the Netflix TV show, where Geralt and Yennefer have just got it on and then he’s left her the morning after.

The blue sky was deepening as Jaskier, Geralt and Roach set off from Rinde. Already the late afternoon was upon them, and despite all his jokes and innuendo about the saucy mad witch, Geralt was refusing to give Jaskier any juicy nuggets of sorceress seduction gossip that he could use as material.

It was like the monster hunter just wanted to keep it all to himself.

Jaskier didn’t understand. If he’d managed to bed a woman as comely as Yennefer of Vengerberg, he would have been singing songs to himself all day and night. And then he’d have been singing those songs in all the local taverns too, for Jaskier believed good news should be shared, especially when it related to the prowess and pulling power of his rather generous libido.

Not that he was interested in this particular witch though, of course. He liked his women a shade less demonic, even if the mage had saved his life.

But Geralt’s refusal to kiss and tell suggested to Jaskier that the white wolf was not quite as unmoved by his last night’s experiences as he maintained. Maybe there had been some pleasure after all in amongst all that monster-hunting business?

Maybe the famous witcher was capable of normal, human feelings just as he was?

The thought intrigued him, and by the time the shadows had lengthened and the wind turned cold, he decided to confront Geralt with it head on. They were now far enough away from Rinde to be sure that the witch was left behind them and gone for good.

“You’re being extra broody today, you know that?”

Geralt scowled down at him from atop his horse.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Why won’t you tell me what it was like? It’s not every day someone beds down with a certifiable sorceress! Did she... did she use her magic powers on you?”

Jaskier’s voice dropped lower, and his eyes widened at the thought of all the kinky witch powers a scantily clad mage like Yennefer might possess. Maybe it might be worth putting up with all her insanity and madness, if she was willing to use that magical ability for occasional selfless good between the sheets.

“I’m saying nothing, bard. And whatever sordid thoughts you have in your mind – I’d like you to keep them there. Or save them for one of your conquests, I don’t care. So long as I don’t have to hear them sung back at me in your ridiculous ballads.”

Jaskier sighed.

“Oh come on, it’s a long walk to Tretogor – and I’m bored! You need to give me something to think about. Otherwise I’ll just come up with ever more elaborate ways to make Valdo Marx die – and it’s only monster killing that you’re supposed to condone.”

Geralt turned and stared at him with those golden eyes, and Jaskier nodded encouragingly, sensing the witcher was weighing up the choices and might yet be open to persuasion.

“Or how about I give you some dinner to think about instead, bard? It’s time we made camp for the night. If you set a fire, I’ll find us something to roast on it.”

Jaskier grinned.

“You just think I won’t be able to talk while I’m eating – but you’re wrong, Geralt. I can sing and play my lute – and entertain ladies very generously – all while eating. But you’re right. It’s starting to get dark. Maybe we should leave the road and find somewhere sheltered for the night?”

Geralt dismounted from Roach, and the little trio made their way up the hill slightly, wishing to put some distance between themselves and whatever unknown travellers might pass their campfire in the night. It was probably safer for the travellers that way, unless it happened to be Yennefer making a trip to Tretogor in search of some kindred spirits.

For it seemed something horribly monstrous was afoot in the nearby town, scaring the villagers and driving merchants away.

Some tradesmen at the Rinde market that very morning had hinted at evil goings on around the neighbouring Redanian town. The severed heads and torsos of several farmers – minus their eyes and lips – had been found scattered around the woods that encircled the outlying farmsteads.

The villagers were all worried – and they were all rich – so Geralt immediately wanted to inspect the bodies more closely to assess what kind of monster they were dealing with. It seemed to Jaskier he had several working theories, but would say nothing until he’d examined what evidence remained of the dead men and women.

It was the typical noncommittal brooding that Jaskier had come to expect from his friend. And it had also been a handy face-saving ruse to escape from the mad witch they’d been entangled with in Rinde. But the journey was too long for a single day, not with them setting off so late in the morning. And now it was almost nightfall.

The sun was ready to set by the time they’d found the right sort of clearing in the trees, and Geralt tethered Roach to a tree by a patch of juicy green grass, letting the horse eat and rest after their long journey.

“I’m going to find us some dinner, bard. I won’t be long.”

The witcher drew his sword, and began to strut deeper into the woods.

“Uh, Geralt? Is it safe to be out here all alone? For me, I mean?”

The witcher flashed him a dark smile.

“If you need me, bard, just scream. With your great singing voice I’ll hear you from miles around.”

Jaskier nodded unhappily, and scanned the trees around the clearing.

Tall, twisted pines and firs they were – and now the sun was sinking they were doing a good job of screening out whatever light remained in the sky. He would have to get the fire going soon, or sit here in the dark with nothing but thoughts of monsters to keep him company until Geralt returned.

He watched his silver haired friend slink into the trees, disappearing between the thick branches and suddenly gone from view. And even after he had disappeared, Jaskier watched the space where he’d been for a moment longer, seeking to trace something of his friend’s outline in the darkness.

But the witcher was gone. And he was alone.

He breathed a sigh, and turned to his bag to find the firelighting kit that Geralt had given him. No matter how many times he’d been shown how to start the fires, he remained rubbish at this. His skills lay in women, wine and song – not roughing it outdoors under the cold stars with no silk sheets or blankets, trying to light fires like a rugged man of labour.

He was a man of leisure, with soft hands – and a penchant for easy living.

But still, despite all of that, he knew the reason why he was here. Why he remained. Why he tried again and again to improve his hopeless firelighting technique.

And right now, he would not choose to be anywhere else in the world.

He sighed, and set to work on building the fire, just the way Geralt had shown him. His friend would be back soon, and Jaskier didn’t want to let him down...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos guys! It's nice to hear other folk are enjoying this, it's fun writing it too :)
> 
> This next chapter is a bit darker (and more monstery), but there's not gonna be any violence or anything in this fic, so don't worry about the boys... they will be just fine!

It had taken several attempts and angry mutterings, but finally Jaskier’s patience had paid off.

Within the little clearing, sheltered from view of the road into Tretogor, the rosy glow of a campfire burned beneath the deep blue sky. Above the canopy of trees all around, the bright white stars could be seen peeping into view, promising that the coming night would be clear and dark – and cold.

It would be a night that would be better spent indoors, under cover. Or perhaps, to be pressed up close against someone – set against a warm body whose blood ran hot against the chill starlight overhead and whose very presence would keep the midnight demons away.

Jaskier eyed the trees around him, trying to listen hard to hear any sounds of snapped twigs or trampled leaves that might herald his friend’s return. Or the approach of something else.

But the forest around here was silent, now that the birds of daylight had settled to their roosts. It held its breath, waiting for the owls, foxes and wolves to emerge as the world slid into night, and lent cover to the otherworld of creatures that stalked their prey in darkness, unseen and unsuspected by those who were blind without light.

_“There was a djinn, and it made a din, when Geralt of Rivia, smashed its amphora in...”_

Jaskier plucked tunelessly on the lute, somehow unwilling to commit to this song and break the heavy silence that grew all around.

He didn’t quite know how he felt about yesterday’s events, and had hoped to compose a few lyrics out of the whole traumatic experience to clear his head. But right here and now, it felt like the trees were listening in to every word he said – and this really wasn’t the kind of audience he needed to perfect his new composition.

Somehow, the trees might hear his secrets. They might learn about his fears – and whisper them to others who walked the woods at night. And as the fire crackled and popped beside him, Jaskier put his lute down and poked at the burning logs instead.

Geralt would be back soon. He wouldn’t leave him all alone like this in the dark.

And once the witcher was back, this feeling of lonely vulnerability might go away at last...

A twig snapped in the bushes behind him, and Roach lifted her head and whinnied in hesitation.

A figure appeared between the trees, and Jaskier turned to catch sight of the same silver haired figure he’d missed.

“Geralt, you’re back!”

The relief in his voice was obvious, and the bard kicked himself inwardly again. He didn’t want to sound so sappy all the time. So needy. And scared.

“Hmm.”

The figure of Geralt marched into the clearing, and Jaskier couldn’t help but notice the distinct lack of dinner that had been brought back. He arched his eyebrows and clucked.

“Were there no squirrels to find, Geralt? Have the monsters got to them all first?”

The witcher said nothing, but scanned the clearing and seemed to sniff at the air.

Jaskier watched with widening eyes, wondering if his friend was in fact hunting for something worse than a squirrel. At the other end of the clearing, Roach stamped a foreleg on the ground, and tossed her head with a hissing snort.

“Uh... Geralt? Is there something the matter? Should I be worrying here?”

His friend blinked his orange eyes, and turned his head slowly to regard Jaskier.

His mouth opened, hesitant.

“No.”

It was obvious that something very much was the matter though, whatever the witcher claimed. Jaskier shook his head, and scanned the clearing another time, wondering whether whatever was playing on his friend’s mind had crept closer while his own attention was fixated elsewhere.

“Right, well. That’s good. Why don’t you, er... sit down and tell me about it?”

The orange eyes blinked a second time, and the silver haired figure marched towards where Jaskier sat – marched straight up, and seated himself incredibly close to the bard – somehow closer than Jaskier would have wanted. He could smell the horsey odour that emanated from the witcher’s leathers, and the sharper scent of the blood that clung to his sword, no matter how many times it was cleaned.

“So, Geralt... have you any idea of what might be out there? What killed all those people in Tretogor? Or are you just – ”

Jaskier broke off, shocked.

Geralt had reached out and placed a finger across his mouth – and the sudden contact with his friend’s skin upon his lips stole the very breath from his body.

He looked into those amber eyes with honest confusion.

And they stared back, unblinking.

Geralt’s finger traced across his lips, grazed the side of his cheek, and his hand cupped the side of the bard’s face.

Jaskier was lost for words.

This couldn’t be happening. Not here and now, like this.

But yet it was. It was happening.

Geralt was tilting his silvery haired head towards him, and Jaskier felt the heat of his friend’s breath warm his face for a brief second, before those witcher’s lips were pressed against his own.

Geralt was kissing him.

It was real. It was really happening.

And staggered, slow to react, Jaskier let himself be kissed. And more – he let himself kiss Geralt back...

He heard the cry of surprise in the back of his own throat, and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to his feelings, after all this time.

He didn’t want to open them, in case his friend broke away, or vanished like a phantom in to the mists that were suddenly filling his mind. For there was a soft sensation – like falling – and Jaskier felt a darkness overtake his eyes, as his feelings suddenly failed and froze over.

Into unconsciousness.

And now, without his knowledge, those lips were indeed withdrawn from his own, and his sleeping form fell helplessly into his friend’s chest – the friend that was still sitting close beside him, studying the unconscious bard in silence.

And with a fluid motion, that silent figure rose to its feet and towered above the musician.

The horse whinnied in distress, pawing at the ground and tossing her head, but that figure ignored her – she was no threat to its intentions. It had all been assessed.

It slid its arms down to reach for Jaskier, and swept his body up and over its broad shoulder in a scooping motion, turning its orange eyes towards the trees to listen for the approach of the absent companion whose form it had read and copied.

And satisfied that there was time, the creature stole back into the darkened trees with its defenceless prey, leaving the witcher’s horse to snort and stamp her hooves – trying to summon her master back now to the empty clearing, before it was too late...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, just a wee warning: I think I kinda scared myself a bit in writing the first part of this chapter, describing the made-up mutated monster here. It’s a bit on the gruesome side! But don’t worry: we have a talented and heroic monster hunter in close proximity, and he’s the legendary Geralt of Rivia who in no way is going to let some horrible creature sink its nasty fangs into our Jaskier. And he is on it!
> 
> And also, if you’ve liked the basic premise in this story then I’d suggest you check out ‘His Sweet Kiss’ by FrozenHearts (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038973), which is a sweeter and more romantic take on chapter two of this fic! :)

The moon was rising yellow through the trees, glinting coldly off the amber cat’s eyes that had been copied ever so faithfully from the musician’s fond memories of his friend’s true face.

The silver haired figure smiled to itself at the thought. It was all so easy, this hunting. This killing. Out here – in the forest – it could assume all manner of sharp-toothed shapes and use their claws and beaks to break skin and draw blood. And out here – so close to the city where it had been raised – there was no shortage of humans to ensnare, no shortage of dumb lovesick fools who could be so carelessly seduced. Their feelings made them blind, and their blindness made them weak.

This one tonight, for example. So full of suppressed desire, and smothered-down lust. It would be tragic if it wasn’t so useful – for the musician’s loss would be its own gluttonous gain, to be feasted upon freely once the moon rose higher.

The figure approached its lair, burrowed into the ground with its own bear paws decades since passed, before it had awoken from its long hibernation.

It had slept for centuries, after the woman had created it in her house by the Tretogor woods.

She had been a practitioner of magic – a grieving mage who had lost her love to the sickness that plagued the town. She had thought to rebuild her lost man with the power of her magic, and the magic of her memories, but she’d been under the influence of the poppy for too long after his death, and her misshaped alchemical rituals on the captive Doppler had created something unexpected. Something new.

Something poisonous, and hungry – filled with bitterness and hate. Possessed of skinchanging magic, and telepathic powers. Something unutterably dangerous.

It had killed her where she had stood, still hypnotised by the shape of her lover – and feasted for the first time on human flesh. The taste had been good, and her window to the woods had been open, with the vast landscape outside promising more feasting, more freedom, and more forms that could be taken to trick the heartstruck.

And now it had found another fool to feed on. There were so many: easy to sedate and prey upon. But they tasted better once they wakened. Once the poison had dissipated and allowed them some small use of their muscle, to squirm and wriggle, as they tried to resist its teeth.

The fear in them made their meat taste sweeter.

And so it would be for this one.

The figure with silvery hair reached its burrow, and slunk to all fours. It grew bristly hairs, and sharp claws, now its need for hands was absent.

The helpless musician was dumped on the ground, then dragged into the yawning hole in the earth, where the light of the stars didn’t reach, and the shadows could only hide the sight of the spilled blood that lay pooled on the bone-riddled floor...

*** *** *** *** *** ***

Out in the forest, Geralt picked up the fallen pheasant. The silly bird had crossed his path en route to its den, and that had been the last mistake it would ever make – its only journey now would be to a spit above the campfire, and a pairing with one of the Rinde wines that Geralt had bought at the market that morning.

A surprise present for Jaskier. To apologise for insulting his singing, in case the bard did remember after all.

But Geralt’s dinnertime reveries were lost in an instant, as his ears picked up an unexpected sound through the trees.

The witcher heard his horse calling to him: that was the first indication of trouble. He’d only travelled a few miles from the camp, and could hear Roach’s snorts of alarm carry clearly through the crisp night air.

She was whinnying out to him for help. He recognised the pitch and tone of her cries at once. And already he was turning on his heels.

But then there was the second thing, that made him pause and listen closer. There was no sound of Jaskier. No singing, no wailing – no hysterical pleading for help. It was most unusual. If something was bothering the witcher’s horse, then the bard was not a man known for silence or self control. Something was not right here.

Geralt started back the way he’d come, suddenly hurrying.

It took him only minutes, and on sighting the clearing he noticed three things all at once: that a fire was now burning, that Roach was still tethered to the tree, and that Jaskier was gone.

He scanned around while he made for his horse, who was calming already at the sight of her master’s return.

“Hey Roach, what is it? Has something happened?”

The horse reared up on her hindlegs, and shrieked in reply.

“Hmm.”

Geralt noticed the wooden lute, lying discarded on the grass beside the burning fire. An odd location for a bard to leave it in, so close to the licking flames.

“Where’s Jaskier, Roach? Is he okay?”

The horse reared again, and dropped her forelegs to the ground with a miserable wail.

“Fuck.”

The witcher dropped the dead pheasant and unhooked the silver sword from his back, surveying the outer edges of the clearing, looking for signs of disturbance in the undergrowth.

“Wait here, Roach. I’ll be right back.”

There was a knot in his chest that surprised him – a sharp anxiety that he thought might have lessened now he’d fallen for Yennefer. He tried to push it to the back of his heart like the other feelings that his friend often inspired.

He had no time to worry here. He had to think.

There was nothing new to be scented in this clearing – no signs of intruders, but Roach had clearly saw something upsetting – something that had happened to Jaskier. Here in the clearing.

Something had been in here. Something that he couldn’t detect, couldn’t smell – couldn’t track.

But he could track his friend. He knew the scent of Jaskier well enough, and that smell still lingered on the still night air, all around the clearing. And also... off to the north side, through a gap in the dark trees – in this direction...

Geralt set off, letting his senses guide him. Trying to ignore the urge he felt to run, to panic. To fear that he would be too late, and the danger that he’d always worried about would steal his friend away from him forever, and leave him all alone in a darker, colder world.

He gripped his silver sword tighter, and steeled himself.

Whatever it was that had taken his friend, he would find it – and kill it.

And right now, that was all he could allow himself to think. He tried to forget that he was Geralt of Rivia, and that the life of his own dear Jaskier was in peril...

He was the Witcher. And right now, he had a job to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos guys, it’s really nice to hear folk are enjoying the fic! And I’m glad you weren’t all weirded out too much by the doppler monster too. The first part of this next chapter is a little bit on the dark side again, and it all sounds a bit grim for Jaskier (the poor boy is not having a good time by the end of the first scene). But he will live to be perfectly okay (except maybe in need of some major TLC from Geralt of course!!), so don’t overworry about him in the monster’s lair – he will be fine.

There was a strange, musty odour – and this bed was truly the least comfortable one that he’d ever had the misfortune to sleep in!

He’d need to have words with the Countess de Stael, because this was perhaps the _worst_ night’s sleep he’d ever experienced in his whole life, and he was so stiff now that he couldn’t even move, let alone offer the kind of performance that his demanding patroness would expect in her bed from –

But then he remembered.

She’d dumped him, weeks ago – after that talentless tit Valdo Marx had sang her that pretentious song set to the plagiarised tavern-hit of Jaskier’s very own tune ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’!

The countess had not believed his accusations, nor listened to his protests, and had cruelly cast him aside in favour of that utter charlatan – as if the skills of his body and his balladeering had never meant a thing to her.

And that had been the last time he’d been inside of her silken sheets.

So where was he now?

Jaskier opened his eyes, but he didn’t recognise this dark, low ceiling. It didn’t look – or smell – like the kind of place he liked to hang out, even if his standards had slipped somewhat from his recent ill favour.

And really – he could hardly move. Like, couldn’t move – at all.

And as he watched, racking his brains to remember what had happened, he realised he could hear something in this room alongside himself. He was not alone in here.

Something was breathing. Something nearby.

Something was pulling gently on the end of his trouser leg, tugging playfully, in quick little bursts.

And then he remembered.

Geralt.

Geralt had kissed him!

Geralt had kissed him – and then... he’d woken up in here.

Jaskier tried to move, suddenly bursting to know whether it was his old friend in the room beside him, teasing him with this suggestive and tortuous flood of emotions.

But that smell...

The _something_ at his foot crept closer, stroking Jaskier’s ankle – and started running something hard and slender up the inside of his leg.

He heard himself grunt, and craned what tiny movement he had in his neck to try and glimpse what was doing this to him.

And then, as the _something_ ranged into view of the whispy moonbeams that fell into whatever dark hole Jaskier now realised he was in, he saw it – and in that instant if he could have moved he would have jumped out of his skin completely.

It was some kind of animal – a bit like a bear – but Jaskier was sure that the pointed implement on its face was a _beak_ of some kind (a sharply pointed beak!), and its sinister chimera visage didn’t ring any bells in his mind, except for heavily clanging alarm bells of terror...

He tried to call for help, but his voice was gone, and the only sound he uttered was a choked off whine that sounded horribly afraid to his own ears – and which only seemed to encourage whatever the thing was to travel faster up his body, towards the face he could hardly move, and the eyes he desperately wanted to shut.

What did this thing want with him?

Was it... was it the thing Geralt had come here to hunt? Was it going to dispose of him in the same hideous way he’d heard of in the terrified whispers at the Rinde market?

No. No, no no no no. Geralt was near. Geralt would save him.

Unless...

What if it had already killed Geralt, and stolen his form?

What if his beloved witcher had been killed, and now it was his turn?!

Jaskier felt the thing slide a claw up the buttons on his shirt, breaking them open one by one to reveal his trembling bare skin that lay all so vulnerable beneath that lurking, hovering beak...

This was really... not good. Really. Not. Good.

Jaskier closed his eyes, and concentrated all his thoughts into one single idea, as if he could mentally summon his friend with the power of desire alone.

_Geralt, please – help!_

And as if to answer his prayers, the hideous thing that lay over his chest appeared to _transform_ right before his eyes, even as he watched in horror. The sharpened beak dissolved into a set of familiar lips, and the hair lightened to a dazzling, brilliant white...

“Jaskier, you wanted me.”

No, this couldn’t be real! This was like being trapped in some horrible nightmare, getting worse and worse...

But the figure of his friend smiled down on him all the same.

“I know you’re used to me hurting you.”

A finger, cold and slow, was brushed against his lips.

“But you’re about to find out what true pain really is.”

The fingernail dug into the flesh of his lower lip, and Jaskier tasted blood.

And as the fingernail pushed deeper, the musician could only scream...

*** *** *** *** *** ***

The witcher stalked through the trees, his senses fixed forward on the path ahead. The path that led to Jaskier, and whatever mutant horror had seized him from his safety at the campfire’s side.

He would kill it. But would he kill it in time? Would there be anything left of Jaskier for him to find?

He was getting close now – the scent of his friend was getting stronger, and tangier – and that could only mean one thing. His friend was afraid now, so he must be alive and alert to the danger he was in...

The witcher hurried on.

And soon, within another few steps, he had further proof of Jaskier’s continued existence. For Geralt could now hear the bard’s ragged, drawn gasps. And a sharp whimper of fear...

He was almost there now. He had to be ready.

He raised his sword, and stretched out with his senses to listen for his enemy, to scent the creature he was up against – to gain some semblance of understanding to prepare himself for the next few crucial moments.

He had the element of surprise – for surely the creature could not know he was coming?

Whatever had taken Jaskier, he was ready for it.

The scent strengthened, and led his eyes to the ground. And there he saw it – the hole. The source of Jaskier’s fear was contained within, and the bard himself inside too – still breathing, more and more rapidly.

But he was screaming now!

Geralt nearly dropped his sword at the sound.

He leapt down, into the hole – ready to strike out in rage at whatever threat was facing his Jaskier.

And he saw _himself._

In the dark gloom of the burrow, his friend was lying prone on the ground – alive and groaning – and his only source of torment was the pale haired figure of the witcher, lazily draped over Jaskier’s body, with a finger held fast against the bard’s cries for help...

“What the fuck?”

It was the only thing that Geralt could think of to say, as he stared at the crazy scene before him, and locked eyes with his pleading friend lying scared and helpless on the floor of the bone-riddled lair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I’ve finally got the fight scene finished - Geralt has arrived into the monster's lair just in time to save Jaskier, but he's a bit concerned about his friend's wellbeing and the monster can sense his vulnerabilities, which it will try to use against him. It’s a bit of a longer chapter too – but it would have been difficult to break it up midway through. So I hope it reads okay and isn’t confusing or anything. I can’t really write long action sequences (too hard!) so the monster is going to use its telepathic mindfuck abilities to try and undermine Geralt’s witchery advantage in fighting instead. It kinda seemed more fun that way (although not for Geralt and Jaskier, obviously!)...

“What the fuck?”

Geralt stared as the image of himself rose to its feet, smiling at him in greeting.

“Ah, you’ve come at last, witcher. I’ve been expecting you – ever since I read the mind of your little friend here. Or is he something more to you than that?”

Geralt ignored the doppler’s comment. Right now, he needed to be sure he hadn’t failed that friend already. For Jaskier was bleeding – he was hurt!

“Jaskier... are you alright?”

The bard could barely speak. The blood was trickling from his lower lip, and a heave of dread washed right over Geralt until he realised it only came from a scratch. Jaskier would survive this – just as long as his witcher didn’t let him down now.

Just as long as his witcher didn’t give in to the simmering rage boiling over at the sight of that blood!

As long as he kept himself together. Like a professional.

Like a witcher should be, always.

“Geralt... _help!”_

“Hmm.”

The witcher tried to ignore his feelings for Jaskier and think. None of this made any sense. Dopplers were usually gentle, retiring creatures – harmless even to innocents like the bard. They didn’t hurt people – it was people who normally hurt _them._

But this one didn’t seem to know that. Something was wrong with it. Something – either a mutation, or an evil spell – had driven it to violence. And for that, Geralt would have to destroy it – before it hurt any more innocents in the woods.

“He’s not the first one you’ve wounded, is he?”

The figure’s grin deepened.

“I need to eat too, witcher. And now I have two of you for dinner. How delightful.”

Geralt raised the silver sword, not wishing to prolong this confrontation.

“No. Now you only have to die.”

But before he could strike, the doppler’s appearance began to change... into that of a woman.

A woman that Geralt more than recognised, for it was a woman he’d once dreamt of every single night for years and years. A woman he’d once briefly loved – and lost.

The ghost of all of his nightmares past, come to life again before his eyes.

He shook his head, not willing to believe the trick.

“No. You’re dead.”

The figure of Renfri placed a hand on her hip and shrugged.

“Maybe I am, witcher. Or maybe your memory brings me to life. Which way would you prefer it?”

“You’re dead. Because I killed you. And I’ll happily do it again.”

The woman smiled mockingly.

“You bring death to all those you love, don’t you? No wonder Jaskier here is terrified. Who’s the real monster, witcher? Me – or the Butcher of Blaviken?”

Geralt shook his head, momentarily disarmed.

And it was all the figure needed to lunge at him – the arm of Renfri had shifted into a weapon – sharp and fast moving towards his face.

He dropped to the ground, just in time – and the blade sailed harmlessly over his head.

And while the doppler was caught off balance, Geralt took his chance. He drove his sword up, into the air where the creature had been... but it had already dodged away, and he had missed his opponent in turn.

He blinked, rising to his feet with his sword raised, trying to locate the thing in the dark.

It had moved closer to Jaskier. It was standing right over him now – a malicious smile playing across its face. And that beautiful face was very different from last time he’d looked. Even more deadly to his sense of balance.

Geralt gasped, and the figure of Yennefer shook her head sadly.

“It’s not such a surprise to see me here, surely? Not after your last wish, Geralt.”

The witcher growled. Not her. Of all the fucking people in this world, not her.

“Stay away from him.”

Yenn fixed him with those violet eyes, and he felt his pulse quicken with a poison cocktail of toxic emotions. How much guilt, and doubt could one woman’s gaze arouse in a man like him? How much rage could it inspire, to see her face being used like this against him?

How much could he miss her, after just one day?

“But you don’t need the bard anymore, Geralt – not now you have me. Not now you and I are bound together in destiny, whether I like it or not... Just like you and Renfri.”

The figure fixed him with a sensual pout, and held her hands out.

“Come and get me, Geralt.”

And as he watched, the fingers on those hands warped and deformed into knives. One set of knives that were stretching out to greet him: and another set that were thrusting at the bard’s face. Even if Geralt managed to dodge out of the way of the attack, Jaskier would be a dead man in seconds.

He had to stand his ground, against this woman he feared most of all, without flinching. He had to think of how to kill her. But even the sight of her made him weak.

He froze, hypnotised by her purple eyes. Begging her to stop.

“Yenn, no!”

But even through the fog of pain that enveloped his waking mind, the instincts of the witcher were strong. And his hunting knife was sharp.

Before the mutant doppler’s weaponised fingers could reach either of its targets, Geralt acted on instinct alone, and loosed his hunting knife through the air at the source of all of his pain and rage and frustration.

It flew in a straight path right at the creature’s heart.

The blade made contact with the figure of Yennefer, and the sad mirage of the woman he loved stared back at him in shock.

She fell to her knees, the knife embedded in her chest.

“Your aim is true, witcher. Well done.”

The creature shifted into a broiling mass – one that Geralt watched closely, while his heart hammered in his chest – but whether for Jaskier, or Yenn, or poor dead Renfri, Geralt did not know. He’d hurt them all, in some way – and this monster had known it just as well as he did.

Even in its death throes, the thing still lingered too close to Jaskier for his liking, but surely the bard was safe now? As safe as he could be around a man like Geralt of Rivia.

He stepped forward, towards his fallen friend. He was done now, and it was over. He needed to grab hold of Jaskier now, more than ever, and know that he was alright – that he was going to be okay. That this time, Geralt hadn’t failed. That this time, the one he loved was unharmed.

“Jaskier...”

Geralt heard the emotion in his voice, and broke off, shocked.

For the creature was shifting again, and a cracked sound like laughter was emanating from its bleeding chest.

Its form changed a final time... into that of Jaskier himself.

The grey eyes of the bard stared balefully out at him, even as the blood spurted red from his chest around Geralt’s own blade. The voice of his friend was low, and sad, and accusing.

“You’ve won today, witcher. But your friend will still die. You hurt everyone you love, and your love is the death of everyone you touch.”

The dying image of Jaskier grinned evilly, and collapsed – onto the living, breathing Jaskier who lay trembling on the ground, his eyes wide with fear.

The witcher shuddered.

“Geralt...”

Jaskier’s voice was hoarse, and broken.

And with a snarl of rage, the witcher grabbed his knife from the mocking corpse’s chest and stabbed and stabbed again to make sure it was really dead. To try and shift that horrible, accusing gaze from its grey eyes.... but they stared through him like glass.

“Geralt – ”

Jaskier tried to raise his voice.

And the witcher tore his own eyes away from the dead doppler and back to his living, breathing friend. And he remembered what he needed to do.

He threw the mangled creature against the wall of its bone-lined burrow in disgust – and sank to his knees beside the bard, unable to stop himself from grabbing at the musician’s soft hands. Relief was making his head spin, and his own hands were suddenly shaking.

His friend’s hands were warm with life. Unharmed and alive.

“Are you okay, Jaskier?”

The bard smiled weakly.

“I can’t move. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

The witcher stared.

“What happened to you? What did it do?”

Jaskier closed his eyes, avoiding Geralt’s gaze for once.

“Uh...you know. It kissed me. It looked like _someone_ – and I... was fooled.”

Geralt frowned, not quite understanding – but before he could speak, Jaskier squeezed his hand. And in a voice both soft and gentle, spoke to his fears directly.

“I heard what it said to you. I saw it all. Are _you_ alright, Geralt?”

Those round, grey eyes shone wide at him in the thin moonlight, radiating concern. Radiating trust, and life, and love – all the things in the world that were precious and good. All the things that Geralt had almost lost again forever.

He considered. Lost for words at his friend’s simple question.

“I am now. Now you’re okay.”

The witcher closed his eyes, and the image of Jaskier with the bloody chest came hurtling through his mind. If he’d been even moments later in arriving... he didn’t even want to think what could have happened. His friend would be dead, and Geralt would be destroyed.

He shook his head, trying to shake some sense into himself.

“I’ll carry you back to camp. I’ll check you over. If you need a healer, we can leave for Tretogor at once. I’m sorry for leaving you all alone, Jaskier. This is all my fault.”

The bard stared back at him, and his lower lip wobbled.

“Geralt, please – let’s go. Let’s get away from here.”

The witcher nodded, and bent to lift his friend. The bard was light – easy for a man of Geralt’s muscle to carry in his arms, with Jaskier’s own arms wrapped close around his shoulder. The feeling of warmth from the body he now carried soothed his mind somewhat.

It could all too easily have been the torn remnants of his friend’s cold corpse that he’d found, down here in this place. But he didn’t want to think about that anymore.

He only wanted to cling to Jaskier tighter, and atone for whatever harm had come to cross his friend this night. Somehow he would make it up to him, and see Jaskier smile and joke again.

He needed this man beside him, and he would not let him go from his sight until dawn came and drove the monsters out of his heart...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... Geralt has rescued Jaskier from the evil doppler monster, and after all that’s just happened - these boys now have some proper explaining to do to each other. 
> 
> And who knows where that might lead...? :)

The walk back to the clearing was a silent affair.

For once, Jaskier had nothing to say – and yet so much to say – for the memories of what had passed in the burrow kept spinning round in his head like a broken record.

He’d heard every word of what that monstrous creature had said to Geralt. He’d seen the forms it had taken, and understood it had done so to hurt his friend. To weaken him – and kill him inside, so it could then kill both of them, for real.

But he still didn’t understand what it had all meant – and he had so many questions that he wanted to ask, and no idea how to begin them, tired and drained as he was. He could only clutch his arms round Geralt’s neck with all the strength he could manage, and bury his face against the witcher’s neck, closing his eyes and breathing as steadily as his pounding heart allowed.

The power of motion was returning to his limbs – he could move them, faintly – but maybe not well enough to walk unaided yet. Not that he wanted to try. Not when Geralt was happy to hold him like this.

Instead, he let himself be carried back to the relative safety of the little campfire – still ablaze – and shining with a soothing orange glow against the darkness of the starry night sky.

Roach gave a soft whinny at their return, but Geralt only nodded to her – he proceeded straight to the fireside, and gently lowered Jaskier’s feet to the ground. 

“Can you stand?”

Jaskier sat quickly, off balance on his feet.

“I’d rather not. I’ll sit – and have some of that wine I brought. It’s in my bag. I _really_ need a drink, Geralt. Maybe you should have one too.”

The witcher nodded.

“Let me get it for you. Warm yourself by the fire.”

Jaskier stared into the orange and reds of the flames, watching the twisted forms rise and die without trace. Just like the dead creature in the burrow, and its many phantom faces. All those illusions had disappeared and gone from the world now the monster was killed – those ghostly faces and the words they’d spoken only existed in memory.

In his and Geralt’s memories.

But what did they mean to Geralt? Why had the creature taken his own face, to taunt the witcher? Why had it talked about love at that moment, and insinuated that Jaskier meant something more to him than what he’d always assumed was possible?

He desperately needed to know. He’d faced death twice in as many days – so compared with that, what was facing the truth now? Even if it killed him, he needed to know.

Geralt returned from soothing Roach, carrying Jaskier’s bag and a heavy fur blanket, and handed them both to him without a word. The night was colder now the moon was high, and now the warmth of his friend’s touch was gone from his side.

But at least he had the wine to keep the chill void at bay.

Jaskier rummaged for the pitcher that he’d brought, swigging the warming liquid from the jar while Geralt speared a pheasant over the fire. Neither of them said anything, until the witcher finally sat down beside him – his cookery tasks done for the night.

Jaskier stared at the roasting meat without interest. He had no appetite for food. He only wanted to drink. And suddenly – to talk.

He turned to Geralt, his heart beating faster.

“You saved my life. Again. The second save in two days, isn’t it? And I feel a song alone doesn’t cut it this time. What do I owe you for this huge favour?”

The logs crackled on the fire, while the witcher considered.

“Jaskier, I just want you to be honest with me.”

The bard felt himself blush.

“Honest? About what? Tell me.”

But Geralt said nothing. Instead, he placed a hand gently on Jaskier’s arm.

The musician was too surprised to say anything. He could only stare down at this small gesture of affection – and take a hurried swig of the wine before his courage failed him.

“About who you saw. When the creature appeared to you.”

It was the one thing that Jaskier had been afraid to reveal, before his brush with death. And even now, he hesitated.

He sighed and met the amber eyes of his friend, at long last. They were studying him, unflinching and curious. But he couldn’t match them – he had to look away, back into the fire.

“I think you know who I saw, Geralt. You saw it like that too... when you found me.”

His voice was quiet, soft. He had no will left to lie, or hide his feelings anymore. And however much it hurt, it needed to be said now.

He could leave in the morning, if he had to. He could leave his friend and never find him again, if that’s what he had to do.

If that’s what Geralt _wanted_ him to do.

But Geralt squeezed his hand. And Jaskier lifted his head from the flames and stared into those orange eyes once more, with a rising hope that all was not lost.

Geralt was nodding at him, and Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat at the sight – as the broodingly serious witcher actually _smiled_ at him. Smiled _for_ him.

“Jaskier, come here.”

His friend’s voice was low and husky, and somehow amused.

And Jaskier didn’t understand. He could only blink. Until Geralt slid closer to him, took his head in his hands, and kissed him slowly, lip to lip.

Despite his eyes being closed, Jaskier saw stars.

Geralt’s hands were sliding down his shoulders, down to his back, pulling him closer still, and he could offer no resistance to it. To this slow slide into another world – a world where he didn’t have to hide his feelings. Where he was free to love, and be loved in return.

He wrapped his hands about Geralt’s waist, and let their kiss quicken. He didn’t care about anything else, in those moments. And he would have happily died that night, if it would have meant he could return to this world, and these same sensations and feelings, and stay entwined there forever.

But finally he had to break away – as he felt a wetness in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks.

Fuck – he was crying now. Like a little baby. And he didn’t know why.

He leant on Geralt’s shoulder, whispering into his ear.

“Is this real? Can we stay like this, together?”

The witcher frowned at his words.

“Jaskier, it’s real. And I’m sorry you had to almost die again... for me to let you know that I care.”

The bard reached for the wine – his face smiling now, even through the tears.

“I’m getting used to it, Geralt – don’t worry. It’s worth it – to be here with you. You know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Beside him, the witcher seemed to flinch.

“I don’t want to get you killed, Jaskier. I do worry.”

The bard shook his head, defiant.

“Well I’m not going anywhere... I need you, Geralt.”

His silvery haired friend smiled sadly.

“Why? Why do you think that? You have admirers everywhere, Jaskier. Noble ladies, with wealth and beauty. You could go to them, and make yourself happy.”

And Jaskier could only stare at him, confused again. Had the wine gone to his head already? Was he missing something? Wasn’t it obvious how he felt?

“Because... because I _love_ you, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier blinked. The tears were coming back, he couldn’t help it anymore.

“And what does that mean? Talk to me! Do you want me to go? Is that what you’re saying?”

The witcher reached out for him again, and took him by the shoulders. His whole scrawny frame was held within those strong, powerful arms, and those unearthly amber eyes reflected the fire back out at him as he stared in desperate appeal at his friend.

“No, Jaskier. I don’t want that.”

He felt the silvery white hair brush against his face, as Geralt moved to whisper in his ear.

“I just want you to be safe. And not lose you.”

And then the witcher’s warm mouth was kissing his neck, and Jaskier felt a shiver run through his whole body.

He couldn’t stay angry and upset with such a sweet and subduing sensation undoing his thoughts like this. He could only close his eyes, and dig his fingers into Geralt’s arms as the kiss grew passionate. Grew hungry.

And Jaskier knew what he wanted – what they both wanted, then and there. He knew where this was going. What they were going to do.

With a growing need running through him, he felt Geralt press a hand through the ruined buttons of his shirt, touching the bare skin of his chest...

The warm mouth moved to his collarbone, and kissed at his skin while Geralt’s fingers skimmed lower. Dangerously – and amazingly – lower. It made Jaskier feel even weaker, needier and more powerless than he’d ever felt in his friend’s presence before, and it was utterly intoxicating.

“Geralt... do you really want this? From me?”

The mouth was withdrawn, and the orange eyes blinked at his.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Jaskier smiled at the thought. At its absurdity. But he needed to make the witcher understand. Because he had his own fears, and his feelings were not a game. Not about this.

He’d played fast and loose with plenty of men and women in his time – but not the ones he’d truly cared for.

Not the ones he’d loved.

“No, I don’t want you to stop. Just... don’t do this if you don’t want me, Geralt. If you don’t _need_ me, like I need you.”

But the witcher only nodded, and bent down to kiss Jaskier’s chest. Then – as his efforts were so obviously appreciated, he turned his attention to more pressing matters – and fiddled with the belt on Jaskier’s trousers.

And before the bard could voice any more protests, his mind had quite lost its ability to think straight.

His heart was leading him into waters deep enough to drown in...

He lay back on the furs that Geralt had brought, and let those feelings break over him. He let the witcher touch him as only a lover could do, and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out when he felt the warmth of his lover’s mouth on his fragile skin. His fingers clawed out for something to cling on to, in case he drifted away and lost himself too quickly.

He heard the crack of the wine pitcher as his arm knocked it over. The sizzle of the liquid as it burnt on the fire.

But he didn’t care.

He was barely conscious of the real world now. All he knew was what was happening in the moment, in these delicious sensations he’d never thought he’d feel at the witcher’s calloused hands and gentle mouth.

His body was undressed and exposed to the fiery orange eyes and the cold night sky, and then all Jaskier could do was surrender himself – and receive all the passion that Geralt had kept aside for him, and only him – even while the bard cried and wept, and gave himself up to his lover’s touch without hesitation or question...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks for reading this fic and seeing it through with all your lovely comments! It’s been loads of fun writing it, but this is the last chapter of this story – for now anyway :)
> 
> I hope it’s not a disappointment or anything! It’s always kinda difficult to get endings right. But since neither Jaskier nor Geralt here is going to go full-Daenerys at the sound of surrender bells, I’m sure you’ll have experienced worse haha
> 
> This chapter is quite a long one again, and is broken up into two main sections. The first one deals with Geralt’s POV, and secondly comes Jaskier’s. Thanks for reading!!

The golden rays of sunshine lifted over the horizon and lit up the amber eyes of the silver haired witcher.

He’d been awake since the first fingers of dawn had bleached the sky grey. Lying there open-eyed, marvelling at how Jaskier’s bare skin felt against his – and reliving all the precious, vital memories of the love they’d shared last night.

It made him blush even now to remember, but a few drops of wine had damped any inhibitions he thought he’d ever have had about being with another man. It had all been so easy, and natural – and real.

His eyes scanned the broken pieces of the wine pitcher with a smile.

It had fallen against a rock and cracked open, spilling most of the wine on the earth. Jaskier had knocked it over. He’d stretched his arm out – to clutch his fingers into the grass – because he’d lost his mind at what Geralt was doing to him.

The memory of Jaskier’s delirium made the witcher dizzy.

And for contrast, he took a moment to gaze at the bard’s peaceful features right now. Watching his dark eyelashes flicker at whatever dream he dreamt. Watching the glint of morning sun as the rays shone yellow on his brown hair. And watching his part-opened lips as they moved with each even breath he took.

He looked so content in his sleep. So happy. And Geralt wanted to kiss his bare shoulder and snuggle down beside him, so that when the musician awoke he’d be there holding him close.

Jaskier had pledged his love to him last night, and Geralt had affirmed it. The bard had offered up his body to the witcher, and Geralt of Rivia had accepted the gift. His dear, sweet friend had surrendered his heart to a man whose life lay in killing – and the witcher had consumed all that love for himself like a starving man.

He’d enjoyed Jaskier, just like he’d enjoyed Renfri and Yennefer before.

He’d whispered to Jaskier that he loved him back – as the man had lain trembling in his arms and his round grey eyes had wept with emotion – after Geralt had made love to him, and left him a shaken mess.

And it had all happened because Geralt had given into the storm of feeling that had swept him off his own feet and into the mad torrent of passion that he normally kept frozen inside like a glacial sea.

And now, looking down on his lover, the witcher felt a terrible fear.

How could he have been so stupid as to let this happen?

For the awful truth was this – he did love Jaskier. He had loved him secretly and powerfully, and would have died for him in an instant.

But he _couldn’t_ let Jaskier die for him.

He couldn’t let Jaskier get hurt, or injured, or suffer any harm – all for his foolish love of a witcher.

The terrifying vision of the bard – bleeding with the witcher’s own knife struck through his heart – kept flashing through Geralt’s mind, and froze the passion in his veins back to ice.

The witcher couldn’t let that vision come to pass. It must never happen.

The two of them could never be together, whatever their feelings might have been: Jaskier wasn’t able to fend for himself against the monsters that Geralt knew lurked at every juncture of his violent life. The bard couldn’t fight, he couldn’t practise magic – and most importantly, he couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble.

And Geralt didn’t want to let him go, not after what they’d done. It would break Jaskier’s heart. It would break his own heart.

But the bard’s heartbreak was better than him dying, even if it meant that Geralt must betray him like this today. It was the lesser evil.

And lying here, savouring these last few moments – he knew what he had to do. He had a plan to make it easier. And it made him want to weep – with guilt, with bitterness, and with loss for all the joy that there might yet have been between them both.

He let his eyes close with a silent sigh against the sun, and left the lightest of kisses on Jaskier’s shoulder – light enough not to stir the sleeping bard under the fur – but strong enough to make Geralt hate himself.

And just for a moment, he almost shook Jaskier awake, to confess his fear. To make him understand, and listen to what he had to say...

But the moment passed, and the witcher forced himself to withdraw from the furs.

And when he opened his eyes again, he tried not to notice the colours that shone in the dawn sun. For betrayal only dressed itself in black, and the betrayal of a lover stole the heart of colour from the sunshine itself.

Geralt reached for his black witcher’s leathers, and kept his eyes on the frosty ground as he dressed himself in silence.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Jaskier felt the cold before he opened his eyes, and knew something was wrong. His dreams had been full of pleasure, and warmth – but now a gap had opened up beside him and had stolen that comfort away.

Where was Geralt?

His body ached for his witcher’s love, and the memory of their passion together last night only filled him with longing. He wanted to feel his lover’s caresses again. His heart needed it like never before, now that he’d given away everything of himself, in the heat of the night. Now that he felt so exposed.

He needed to know it had all been for real, and not just some misunderstanding.

His eyes squinted in the sunshine, searching for Geralt.

And standing there, on the other side of the clearing – there he was.

He was tending to Roach – whispering to her and stroking his fingers through her mane. The sight made Jaskier smile – as he remembered those same hands stroking through his own hair last night, while he’d lain his head on the witcher’s shoulder. Feeling he was loved. Feeling Geralt’s kisses on his forehead.

But Geralt didn’t return his smile, and Jaskier sensed the first discordant note in the inner song he’d composed. And the brightness faltered on his face.

“Geralt? I didn’t hear you get up.”

The witcher came striding over to him, ashen faced and serious.

“Jaskier. How are you? Can you see me now?”

The bard stared up at his friend, noting the distance in the witcher’s posture – and his bright smile was dissolved on his face.

“Of course I can see you. Why would I not be able to see you?”

The witcher’s amber eyes met his – but the man remained silent.

“Geralt? What’s wrong? Tell me what’s the matter!”

The witcher shook his head.

“What do you remember last?”

Jaskier blinked, feeling suddenly on the verge of unhappy tears. But he choked them down, and met Geralt’s eyes with composed neutrality. He tried to speak clearly, but could only whisper.

“I remember what we did last night, Geralt. What you said to me.”

He was mostly successful in keeping the accusation from his voice. And he watched the witcher’s reaction to it all: nothing.

It was enraging.

With a shake of his own head, he found himself asking the same question back again.

“And what do you remember, then? Tell me what’s supposed to have happened! Why are you being like this to me now?”

The witcher kneeled down to him, reached out a hand, and set it on Jaskier’s shoulder. But the bard closed his eyes – unwilling to witness what he knew was coming. He wanted to cry – but there was anger flaring within him too, at the injustice of all of this. An anger that kept him strong.

“You were attacked last night by a mutant doppler, Jaskier. I killed it, but it was poisonous. It made you feverish – you’ve been hallucinating ever since. So I laid you in the furs here, to sweat out the poison. Can you remember anything about the attack?”

Jaskier felt his lip tremble.

Was this really true? Was everything he felt in his heart just now all just a lie? Was everything he thought Geralt had said to him just a trick of his own lonely mind?

He sat up, clutching the furs against his naked body. Staring around the clearing in a state of shock.

There was a pitcher of wine by the furs, beside the fire. Next to his bag.

But he remembered smashing that jug last night. Hadn’t he knocked it over, when Geralt had – ?

He shook his head, not wanting to even think about it. It must have all been a lie. The ache in his body must be from the fever, and the pain in his broken heart was the same one that had always been there, whenever he faced up to the witcher’s coldness towards him.

Jaskier shook his head, suddenly wanting to be far away from Geralt. Far away forever.

“I don’t remember.”

His voice was dull, and lifeless.

“Jaskier – ”

The witcher spoke, and the bard heard the note of unhappiness in the sound. He looked back at those amber eyes, for one last time.

“ – I’m sorry. I need to keep you safe. I’ll do better... next time.”

There was guilt in those eyes – Jaskier could see it. And he could hear the truth ringing clear in Geralt’s voice – he could hear the real emotion, underlying it all. With his musical training, he heard the sound of fear.

And he finally understood.

He understood what the meaning of that monster had been to his friend, and why it had taken his shape to taunt him as it had died last night.

He understood why Geralt was afraid, and why he was lying to him now – because he thought it would protect him from harm. Because he was worried for him. Because he cared for him.

Because their love was real.

And Geralt had come up with some scheme – some half-wittedly clever scheme with another wine pitcher, no doubt – all to deny what they’d done together last night. And all because he was afraid of what it would mean for them to actually admit their feelings in the light of day and be together as they should be.

And Jaskier nodded slowly.

He swallowed, and blinked the tears away, silent in thought for a moment while he felt Geralt’s eyes upon him – checking for his reaction.

Geralt was checking him to see if he’d understand. If he’d forgive this cowardly denial. Or accept the lie.

And finally, Jaskier cleared his throat. He lightened his voice, and forced a smile back on his face.

One day, he would make Geralt see that his fears were unfounded – he would prove to him that they could be together. That they _should_ be together. But for now, what had happened last night would have to be enough.

He needed Geralt. And even if he wouldn’t accept it – Geralt needed him.

Jaskier smiled, and motioned to the pheasant on the spit.

“Well, as long as you’re happy to share that breakfast, I’ll forgive you anything. I had some crazy dreams last night – believe me, that Countess was a saucy wench – but my stomach tells me I didn’t eat a thing!”

The witcher met his eye, and nodded. Jaskier could see the relief on his friend’s face, even if Geralt thought that he’d hidden it safely behind his cold witcher’s mask like normal.

“Stay there then, bard. I’ll bring it to you. You should eat before we hit the road again – we still have a long walk to Tretogor.”

And as the witcher rose to attack the dead pheasant, Jaskier watched him at work. He allowed himself a silent scream, and a shake of the head which Roach saw and copied with a shake of her mane. Perhaps later the tears would come, but they would be tears of frustration, not pain.

Not now he knew he was loved. Not now he had hope.

He would prove to Geralt some day that he was a worthy travelling companion. A worthy friend. And a worthy lover.

And until that day came, he would look after his witcher – and prove to him that those deep, dark fears that he brooded over were all unfounded. That they needed each other. And that life was for living – even if it killed you in the end.


	8. Chapter 8

Hi guys, this isn’t a new chapter as such. I am writing a sequel to this fic though, so thought it might be an idea to link to it here so it’s easy for people to spot (and so anyone subscribed to this original fic actually gets told about it – apparently this doesn’t happen with linked series on AO3, which seems a bit weird!). 

The new extension bit is here: **https://archiveofourown.org/works/22402480/chapters/53523529**

While I do like the ending to this story, I feel there are some unexamined and unexplored elements that could be interesting in their own right, so I thought I’d write a bit more. Specifically, I think Yennefer needs adding into the mix, full of her own grievances and with another agenda at play. I feel she is the kind of woman who could knock some sense into this pair, in some kind of deviously twisted fashion involving revenge sex, dangerous magic and ritualistic karmatic vengeance. Someone should warn Geralt and Jaskier lol...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [His Sweet Kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038973) by [FrozenHearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenHearts/pseuds/FrozenHearts)




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